Before Hogwarts, Before Kingdoms
by Callisto Callispi
Summary: The year is 1065, when Western Europe's finest empires are taking root. Amidst war, romance, and betrayal, four unlikely men and women meet and travel to the British Isles to construct the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry still standing today.


**Teaser**: The year is 1065, when Western Europe's finest empires are taking root. It is the time of William the Conqueror, the Capetians, the Saxons, and the Normans. Fleeing the wars ravaging the countryside, four unlikely men and women meet. In the midst of betrayal, adventure, romance, and hate, they travel to the British Isles to construct one of the finest schools of witchcraft and wizardry still standing today.

**Author's Note**: First and foremost, I apologize for any historical errors presented in this story. Though I have done a formidable amount of research for this time period, I am no historian, especially of Europe's Middle Ages with its spotty historical records, most of which fell victim to warfare. This story, regardless of its historical background, however, concentrates mostly on the relationship between the 'Founding Four' and will remain the focus for the entire fiction.

* * *

**Before Hogwarts, Before Kingdoms  
**_By Callisto Callispi_

**Chapter 1: Lost and Found**

**1065 CE (Early Spring) - The Forested Foothills of the Pyrenees**

"Jean!" Laure screamed as their arrows struck his back. She watched, her large blue eyes pooling with tears, as her long-time friend fell from his horse, dead.

However, she did not stop, even for her dear Jean. He had created a diversion for her, allowing some time for her escape. She would not let his life go to waste. They wanted her dead, and she would not have that. It amazed her, even now, how her family had fallen from power so quickly, so brutally.

"Mademoiselle Laure!" the men behind her hooted. "_Mademoiselle Sirène_!"

She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears spilled down onto her flushed cheeks. They mocked her. _La Sirène_—she used to love being called that.

"Show haste, show haste," she whispered to the horse. "Show haste!"

She risked once quick peek behind her, seeing nothing but the dark shadows and the small flames of light from their torches. The moon was not up tonight, and the sky was dusky with clouds. All for the better.

She rode in the starless night for almost an hour, led only by the good sense of the horse, until she was sure that she had lost her pursuers. She had the fortune of riding a fine stallion: speedy with impressive endurance and agility. He had saved her life. Before the night of the fire, before her world started crashing around her, she had not truly experienced the true thrill of riding a horse. Her brothers had always teased her, coaxed her into getting on one of the huge beasts, but she had stubbornly refused, stamping her feet and bursting into tears when they wouldn't stop.

Soon enough, the horse began to slow. Laure pulled the hood of her midnight blue cloak back and shook her head, her golden curls falling to her shoulders. Laure frowned slightly, fingering her hair. It was sticky with mud, oil, and grime from her nightly escapades. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

"Papa…" she heard herself whisper. "Maman…Louis, Henri, Michel, Guillaume… I miss you…" Another tear escaped her eye, wetting and darkening her lashes. "Oh, Grandmère…Maman always told me how brave you were when you fled the Isles, your home. Now I must flee my home. What should I do? I don't want to be alone. I want Papa here! Oh, Papa, Maman…even Guillaume! But I don't want to be alone!"

The night answered with only silence. Laure sniffed. Of course that was the only response she would get. She pulled her hood back up, wiping away her tears with a grimy hand. As soon as the bleeding, callused palm touched her cheek, she pulled it away in disgust. All of her life, she never had one rough spot on any part of her skin. Her mother, Aurélie Perine, the sophisticated beauty of the Capetian court, absolutely forbade it. After all, the radiant beauty of the Capetian court could not have her only daughter attending court festivities dressed like a ragamuffin in front of the dukes.

Laure was almost glad her mother could not see her now. Her hands were bleeding, her soft skin unaccustomed with the rough leather reins of the bouncing horse. Her clothes were stained with mud and blood, and she was sure she smelled even worse than the villages surrounding her family's chateau. Her back ached, her legs felt numb, and her head hurt.

Laure bit her bottom lip, willing herself to not succumb to her panic. If only she had Jean here to comfort her. If only anyone were here to comfort her. She was accustomed to others' concerns over her, whether she truly needed it or not: Laure was born with love surrounding her. As the fifth child and only daughter to her family, Laure was shown affection and handed luxuries all through out her life. While other nobles fretted over conceiving a son and heir, her father had the luxury of four sons and, more importantly, entitlements of miles upon miles of land. Inheritance issues resolved for the most part, her father spoiled his daughter to the point that the size and opulence of her wardrobe probably matched that of the Princess Royal, and her mother personally saw to Laure's cosmetic regimen and diet to make certain she would wed the wealthiest and most titled nobleman. While her brothers may have found such ministrations intrusive, Laure reveled in it. She had loved her life. When she reached the age when girls became women, she would sit on her mother's soft, silk-cover couch, warmed by the beams of the sun streaming through the window, fantasizing about one handsome man or another. Even when she attended court with her father or accompanied him to Normandy, men would stare at her and whisper, "_La Sirène_."

Laure felt hot tears rushing to her eyes once again. Those days were gone forever now—the days when she would flaunt expensive silk from the Orient, drink her father's precious wines from the Mediterranean, and lounge with her friends while lulled by the gentle music of the minstrel's lyre. The bitch that resided over the throne probably had those now. Laure clenched her teeth at the thought of her wearing her mother's deep purple silks.

Those had been Laure's favorite.

Laure stared dully into the night, tears overflowing her eyes. Where was she going? Why did she bother to live at all? She could never show her face again in the Île-de-France—the only place where she could feel truly at home—with Philip and his conniving mother and uncle acting as his regents.

She rode the horse for a few more hours until a powerful wave of fatigue washed over her body.

"Take me somewhere, my friend," she said to the horse. "I don't know where to go. At least I have you with me. Guide me."

When her eyelids became too heavy to hold up, she allowed them to fall. Darkness darker than the night enveloped her. Soon, she fell into an uneasy sleep, her upper body leaning at an angle against the neck of the horse. Through the night, they reached the foothills of the Pyrenees. As the rosy glow of dawn began to emerge from over the mountains, the horse drank from a nearby spring, and it too fell asleep.

**X**

Salazar pulled back his arrow, keeping a steady eye on the boar feeding in front of him. This one was a beauty, with large tusks and enough meat on it to supply for a grand feast. Just then, as if it heard something, the boar grunted and trotted away into the bushes, out of Salazar's view.

He cursed, let down his bow, and stuck his arrow back into the quiver. It had resorted to this: him actually hunting for his food, not for the enjoyment of the sport itself. Salazar cursed once more, pulling off his gloves and sticking them into the inner pocket of his cloak.

It had been like this ever since Ferdinand crowned himself emperor of Spain nine years ago, and then re-ignited his campaign against the Moors two years after that. Since then, he had seen nothing but battles, famines, and blood. As a fellow 'Christian' of his emperor, he should have been thrilled at this crusading opportunity against the Muslim Moors, and at first, he was. What an idiot he had been then when Ferdinand launched his first campaign. His father laughed at his antics.

"You'll have time to join the battles soon enough, Salazar," he would say with a smile, rubbing the long scar running down the right side of his face.

Truth be told, he had not at all minded Moorish supremacy. It had been a hell of a lot better than Ferdinand's never-ending crusades. Moorish rule allowed for peace and cultural flourish, and they constructed universities and schools for even the lowest of peasants, and the self-acclaimed caliphs themselves were poets and artists. More importantly, they were much more tolerant toward the Alacalá House's tendency toward, as his house delicately put, the old mysticism and the ancient arts that existed in this land before the Christians and the Muslims came.

He clucked his tongue, and immediately, his horse trotted up to him. Salazar patted its neck and hoisted himself up. It was a good hunt, not as thrilling as he would have liked, but productive all the same. He had discovered that boars still roamed the forests.

Spontaneously, he kicked the sides of his horse, and it reared in surprise. He almost laughed at the thrill. They soon ran through the forest at an astonishing speed. Salazar closed his eyes, enjoying the chill of the cold morning wind breeze in his long, dark hair.

Just then, his horse slowed his hasty gallop. Salazar opened his eyes to see what the matter was and grimaced. Near the small spring where his horse had always gone to drink from was another horse with a blue figure tossed almost brokenly upon the saddle. He approached the two as quietly as he could. However, the other horse, sensing their presence, opened its eyes and backed away slowly.

"Now, stay still," he said in his most soothing voice. "I won't do you any harm."

The horse seemed to hesitate for a few seconds and then relaxed its tense muscles. Salazar noticed with a frown the blood that doused its legs and the scratches on its sides. What happened to them?

As soon as he approached the horse, he placed a hand on the blue figure's shoulder and shook it lightly. It wouldn't stir. Was it dead? Salazar hesitantly flipped the body over. He gasped and immediately gathered the figure in his arms. It was a woman!

"My God…" He paused, crossed himself out of habit, and then moved her unconscious body from the worn saddle and onto his lap. He stared at her face, narrowing his eyes slightly. A long gash ran across her hairline and several cuts nicked her pale skin. She was neither a Berber nor an Arab. Her coloring by far resembled the Capetian women of the North…with a touch of the harder features of the women of the Isles. What in the world was she doing so far from the Île-de-France?

"Don't die yet," he said softly, arranging the girl so her head would not loll off his arm. He clucked his tongue, urging her horse over. As soon as he tied the two reins together, he slowly progressed in the direction of his home, one hand gripping the reins of both horses and the other arm holding the girl.

He stared once more at her pale face. She had better be worth all of this trouble.

**X**

Laure dreamt of Louis, her eldest and favorite brother.

"Over there, _chérie_, look!" Louis shouted, pointing at the forest with his other hand resting on her shoulder.

Louis was just as she remembered him before he left for the Isles. His skin, golden from the summer sun of Île-de-France, glowed under the blue sky. His hands, callused and hard from holding the sword, scratched her bare skin. She laughed and leaned in against his arm, cherishing the warmth of her dear older brother.

"I want to sleep, Louis," she mumbled with a lazy smile, entangling her fingers with his.

"It's quite the spectacle. You're missing it, _chérie_. Look, look!"

"Oh, Louis," she said, narrowing her eyes, staring deeply into the forest, "I don't see anything."

He laughed and kissed her on the forehead. Suddenly, he stood up, her slipping from his arms. His skin, once warmed by the sun, now felt like ice.

"Louis…where are you going?" Laure asked. "Louis?"

"Rowena, mother is calling us."

"Rowena?" Laure, too, stood up. "How did you know…?"

Rowena—only her mother called her that, after her Saxon-blooded Grandmère, and privately, out of hearing-range from her full-blooded French father.

"Louis?"

"Rowena, I—" He cut off abruptly, and grunted. Laure faced him, her eyes wide with fear. His body shook, as if the Devil himself had seized his soul, and blood spurted from his lips and sprayed onto the white silk of her dress.

"Louis!" she screamed, grabbing a hold of her brother. She felt two arrows sticking out of his back. "God…what? Who—?"

The flames around her licked her skin and dress. She let her brother fall to the floor and screamed. She was in her father's château near the Garonne. Again. The assassins under Philip I's regents had set fire to their home. Black smoke pricked her eyes, every breath ended up in coughs…she couldn't see or breathe…

Someone jerked her arm. Who was it?

"Rowena! Here, come to me!"

"Jean?" she struggled to yell. "Jean? Help me! Help me, Jean!"

"Señorita?"

"_Jean!_"

Laure sat up, eyes wide like a madwoman's and her forehead glistening with sweat. She gripped the blankets so tightly that her knuckles were white. She whipped her head around, regardless of the bandages covering her head and arms, and in a shrill voice demanded, "Where are am I?"

The women all jumped back, wide-eyed. Laure scrutinized each of them, her blue eyes narrowed so they were but slits. At first, she had thought the fire and her dead kin were just nightmares conjured by the Devil. But Laure realized with a sob that the women surrounding her bed were not her maids. Dark-eyed and dark-haired women stared back at her, speaking rapidly in a tongue-rolling language. She squeezed her eyes shut and slapped her hands to he ears. She was in hell. The Devil dragged her to hell after the fire to be tortured by these foreign creatures.

Suddenly, something slammed against the stony wall of her chamber. The women around her fell completely silent. Laure inched open her eyes, her eyelashes brushing against the soft bed sheets. A man's voice, deep and rich, seeped through her fingers and into her ears. He yelled at them, the women, and they answered, softly and demurely.

Laure removed her hands slowly and risked a look up at him. Her breath caught in her throat. Was he the Devil, then, to collect her body and soul? Dark, flashing eyes burned into the women and his tongue rolled with his impish language. Laure felt a tear roll down her cheek. Was she dead or alive? Where was she? Who were these people? Their faces…so unfamiliar!

After a few minutes, through with his long speech, the women left the room. His coal-black eyes turned to hers. Laure stifled a scream. Her hands trembled as if she suffered from cold. She silently prayed for God to deliver her soul from this devilish man.

**X**

She stared at him as if he were a demon. Her eyes, a most peculiar light color, were wide with fear. Her small hands gripped the covers as if they were her lifeline. He was entranced by her. Her golden hair fell down her back in soft curls; her skin was pale but tinged slightly with a feverish pink; her eyes were wild, like a storm out in the sea.

"Who are you?" he asked softly, not wanting to scare her more than she looked. She was obviously delirious from sickness and bad memories, what ever they were.

She sat rigidly and clenched her blankets more tightly.

"Please," Salazar said soothingly, slowly opening his hands in front of him in a sign of entreaty. "I want to help."

The woman trembled slightly and parted her lips. "Je ne comprends pas." She grimaced, and Salazar knew that she was appalled by how rough and winded her voice sounded.

Salazar tilted his head in question. Her words were familiar. He searched desperately within his memory. Where had he heard them before? "Ah!" he suddenly said, making her jump. "So are you are Capetian." Her eyes widened in comprehension.

"You know my language," she replied quietly.

Salazar bowed his head, greeting her with respect. His French, an acquired skill from a traveling mercenary, was far from perfection, but she seemed to understand him. It swelled his pride a bit. He knew many other tongues, including those of the black-skinned Muslims, the tongue of the Normans and the Capetains, the one of the Isles, and a few others, but never had he received any formal instruction. Languages came to him very easily. It was his unique gift—the boon of power for those of the Alcalá House.

The young woman closed her eyes. She seemed as if she were about to burst out crying. "Who are you?" she managed in a steadier, richer voice.

Salazar smiled. She tensed. "My lady, I am Salazar de Alcalá, Lord of the Castillo de las Campanas, Knight in the loyal service of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Ferdinand I of Spain."

"Spain?"

"_Oui_."

She stared at her hands, blinking rapidly. Again, she looked up at him, her lips quivering slightly. "I am in Iberia, Monsieur Alcalá?"

Salazar nodded. "Yes, my lady. More specifically, in Pamplona near the kingdom of Navarra."

The lady blinked, her face taut with distress. "I…I know very little of your kingdom. I've traveled much further than…than I had thought." She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. "My lord, I beg you to not think of me badly, but I thought I had died when I woke up."

"Died?" asked Salazar wondrously. Her eyed her curiously and quirked a smile. "Please worry yourself no longer. You remain on God's blessed earth, for all of its sins and tragedies."

She stared down at her blankets for a minute. Her face, haggard from whatever ordeal she had been through, lifted slightly in a sardonic smile. "Indeed, my lord, you speak very true. You are Christian?"

Salazar shrugged. "I am, more or less. But if you prefer, I could be the 'more' rather than the 'less' and vice versa."

The lady looked up, her lips corked in a tired smile. "It used to matter to me, my lord," she said quietly, but she bit her lip, as if she said too much. "Please act however you wish, my lord. You shall hear no criticism from me." Her eyelashes fluttered, and her eyes slowly started drooping shut.

"Forgive me," Salazar said, stepping back slightly. "You have been through quite an ordeal, I am sure, and I keep you from your rest."

The lady looked up, blinking rapidly. "No, I must be the one to apologize. You offer your hospitality, and I…" She held out her bandaged hands. "I have nothing in return to offer you."

Salazar smiled faintly. "For now, would you grace my ears with your name? Or perhaps the name of your charge?"

She stared down at her hands and hesitated before speaking. "I am called Laure, my lord."

Salazar almost asked her for her surname and title before he stopped himself. Did she think he was stupid enough to be fooled into thinking she were some nameless peasant? He could almost smell the nobility about her, and unlike many of the nobility, her rank was one that afforded much luxury yet little warfare. He would bet his best warhorse that her father held a rank no lower than count, and he wanted to tell her so, but he kept himself in check. She obviously had her reasons for lying, and for now, he would humor this child.

Salazar bowed slightly again. "Well, Lady Laure, I must ask you to sleep now. You've had quite a night, judging from those wounds."

Immediately, her small hands went up to the bandage around her forehead. She gingerly ran her fingers down the numerous nicks and cuts along her face and frowned. Salazar smiled as assuringly as he could.

"If you should wish for something to eat or require anything else, do not hesitate to call for me, Lady Laure. Unfortunately, until I can locate someone who can speak your language, I'm afraid that you will not be conversing much with others of in the _castillo_."

"How will I find you?" she asked suddenly.

"Just ask for Lord Salazar to one of my servants, and I shall be at your side. I shall also be checking on you regularly. Do not fear."

"This is terribly kind of you."

"Not at all, my lady. You must rest now and restore your strength." He turned to leave. Well he was caught up in quite the predicament. He had one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen in one of his beds, and the uncle of his betrothed, the Lady Nicola de Navarra, was a prince of this region. Thank God Nicola was vacationing nearer to Aquitaine than Navarra, but Salazar knew naught whether to be pleased or worried. Perhaps a bit of both. By God, if he broke off such a betrothal, his father would undoubtedly disown him from his inheritance and his house would turn its back on him. He couldn't ruin his chances at wealth, title, and more importantly an alliance between the most ancient houses of Iberia because of this foreigner, no matter how beautiful she was.

Just as he reached the threshold of the chamber, she called out to him.

"Please wait. I—I'm very sorry for everything. You've been very kind toward me, a stranger, and I've told you hardly anything."

Salazar glanced back at her, amused at her trusting nature. "I am no saint, my lady. However, I do not harbor any ill will toward you, and under the circumstances, I do not know what else I could have done otherwise. You are also unwell and exhausted, and I have no wish to take advantage of your condition right now." He stopped himself abruptly. Why was he being so frank with her? He had mouthed off exactly what he felt to this complete stranger. "Please rest. After you are in better health, we shall talk."

She stared at him, obviously surprised. Then her face shadowed into something like guilt. Good, the guiltier the better, he though a bit childishly. That way, he could extract what he needed to know more easily. He sighed. He knew he could extract whatever he needed to know out of her, whether she was right state of mind or not. But… He glanced over his shoulder to find her smiling softly at him.

"Thank you."

He felt a slight flutter in his stomach. He nodded briskly. "Sleep now, my lady." Then, he closed the door.

...

END CHAPTER


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